


Karma police, I've given all I can (it's not enough)

by blueberrywizard, heismysoulmate



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Backstory, Canon - Comics, Comics/Movie Crossover, Eating Disorders, Gen, He's just a boy let him breath, Hopeful Ending, I Don't Even Know, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I read them on my uni lectures and that's how that happened, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Noir wears glasses bc that's what I want, Peter B. is a good guy, Peter Benjamin is just a sweet boy who saw too many terrible things in his life, Post-Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018), just a bit, mentions of other mental illness, noir needs a hug, they all do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 10:29:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18467104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberrywizard/pseuds/blueberrywizard, https://archiveofourown.org/users/heismysoulmate/pseuds/heismysoulmate
Summary: "He’s twenty one and he knows that nothing is given once and for all."Peter Benjamin Parker fights all his life. Fights and loses.(In time it turns out that maybe he's gaining something along the way.)





	Karma police, I've given all I can (it's not enough)

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Karma police, I've given all I can (it's not enough)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282320) by [blueberrywizard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberrywizard/pseuds/blueberrywizard). 



> That's was an experiment and it worked? We'll say more about it at the end. 
> 
> Title borrowed form "Karma Police" by Radiohead.
> 
> Be careful my pals, and read tags carefully. We probably mentioned all the heavy stuff, but you can't be too careful. Also, we have no rights for anything here exepct about my (@blueberrywizard) sad attempt in writing angst and some hc I liked. Just to be sure, because you know, strange things are happening in Europe when it comes to fan works. Oh, and English is not our first language, so if there's any errors - give us a sign, and we'll make it better next time.

He’s twenty one and he knows that nothing is given once and for all.

 

He’s ten when his parents die. He never found out how it happened. Was it mob related murder? Or just an accident? He’s a kid who understands nothing. He doesn’t know how the world works, what a cruel and brutal machine it is. A machine which destroys everyone and everything, powered by evil and filth; a machine which doesn’t care about people’s lives, like they’re some bugs that have no meaning whatsoever, and are only meant to be crushed under heavy rubber sole. 

 

(Back then, he still wanted to be a man who will make the world a better place.)

 

He’s fifteen when he’s starting to realise what hunger means. These are hard times, and it’s only gonna get harder. He’s not the only one in the distraught mass of people, bodies, begging for death, and ghosts who couldn’t find buildings tall enough to throw themselves off them. Uncle Ben and Aunt May are doing whatever they can so all of them can survive, but the Great Depression hits hard and spares no one. He’s hearing muffled whispers coming from the kitchen and he knows what they mean. He knows that next week is going to be even worse than the last one, so he’s using his nimble fingers to mask the fact that half of his breakfast always ends up in Uncle Ben’s bag. Second half is meant for Aunt May - he leaves before she wakes up. They don’t need to know about this. It’s fine anyway.

 

(Back then, he still didn’t know that his habits will stay with him for the rest of his life.)

 

He’s eighteen when he sees Uncle Ben’s body mauled by - as he thought then - dogs. He’s eighteen when the reek of slaughterhouse, stale blood and sweat engraves on in his mind for good. He’s eighteen when hatred for the world fills every part of his being. He’s eighteen when he loses the last remains of his innocence. But he still doesn’t understand the world he lives in. He knows what it’s composed of, but he doesn’t understand the injustice, cruelty, lies, hunger, poverty, drugs and illegal alcohol that are ruling the streets. He doesn’t understand that with his blinding rage and quiet grief he’s going to bite off more than he can chew. He doesn’t understand that he’s only a pawn in a game without the instructions.

 

(Back then, he still didn’t know that his sense of injustice and hatred for crimes will be the only things keeping him alive.)

 

He’s nineteen when he decides that he will no longer be playing by the rules. This decision is made for him, it’s next thing the universe puts in front of him as a fait accompli. But for the first time, he doesn’t fight against the world, but alongside it. And he doesn’t understand why he was chosen, why he’s still alive, why his body had stopped being  _ his _ and became  _ that.  _ He’s nineteen when everything narrows down to pain and redness, which, with it’s metallic taste, breaks black and white reality. Wind, which is going everywhere with him, carrying the smell of the rain that is always present in the city, and pain will be his only friends for a long, long months. He’s nineteen when he’s taking a revenge on every single person responsible for Uncle Ben’s death, but he doesn’t feel the amount of relief he was expecting. Instead, he doubts. Doubts his own morality and his  _ humanity.  _ Later this year, he understand that hate and anger will never leave him. He redirects these on Nazis, and allows himself to forget for a little while that he may as well redirect them on  _ himself. _

 

(Back then, he still didn’t expect how strongly he would like to vanish from the face of the earth.)

 

He’s twenty when he discovers that he isn’t  _ alone. _

 

* * *

 

Other verses are… weird.

 

He could probably find other words like  _ surprising _ or _ frightening  _ (it’s tip of a hat to the Porker’s world, understanding rustic laws of physics is too much for him), possibly  _ eccentric  _ (they all agreed that they will save the trips to the Peni’s world for other occasions), but  _ weird _ was just the best fit. Even now, after a few months since the events in Miles’ verse, and Peni figuring out the technology that lets them painlessly travel between the worlds, Peter still couldn’t get used to colors, noises and strong smells that seemed to be integral parts of his friends’ homes.

 

And soft fabrics. Good lord, he would never admit it, but his hidden behind the mask eyes filled with tears, when May from Miles’ world asked him to take out the blankets when gang (Peter had bad associations, but Gwen explained that it was just the slang, so he didn’t protest), spread over couches and armchairs in May’s living room, was sleeping peacefully after the battle. He could feel them only in places where sleeves of his turtleneck rolled up, and the gloves didn’t reach, but those were the softest things he had ever touched (May didn’t notice, and he was happy about that, because otherwise she would probably insist on him taking one of them, and that would be unacceptable).

 

The amount and intensity of the stimuli sometimes scared him. All of this was so overwhelming, that he sometimes had a problem to focus, to just  _ be _ . Three times during “movie nights” (it appears to be a thing you do in every world) he had to disappear to his own verse, so he could calm down his heart that was beating too fast and slow down his ragged breath, in the quiet and darkness of his own apartment. He was grateful that nobody was commenting on this. Only sometimes he felt May’s worried gaze on himself. Apparently, it was impossibly intense in  _ every single world _ , but he kept pretending that everything is fine. And if occasionally he was lying for hours, curled up under the bed, where the only thing he could feel was a dust, it was his problem.

 

Some days it seemed that everything was wrong, wherever he go (so it was probably him that was out of his mind). And sometimes he had a feeling that, no matter how hard he tried, he was breaking some unwritten rules or other cultural norms. The subject of the food was the worst. It started with a twenty minute lecture given by May and - what’s truly surprising - Peter B. on eating breakfasts. Or not eating them, in Peter’s case. Miles and Gwen also had a problem with it, but they always managed to make them eat at least two toasts and drink some orange juice. Peter never ate breakfasts - waste of food, honestly - and was totally content with two cups of black coffee, which didn’t go unnoticed by May (he still didn’t understand why it was such a problem; there’s a lot of people in the house, kids needs to eat, and he can make it just fine). Similar, a bit nervous, atmosphere was during dinner. Peter always waited for everyone to fill their plates so he could be sure that there was still plenty of food left in case somebody would like a refill. He didn’t know why everyone were looking at him worried - it was logical that he, as one of the oldest in the group, should take care about rest being well fed. And if that meant that there wasn’t enough dinner for him - well, no big deal (it’s not like it’s was something new for him, really, calm down, everything’s just fine).

 

He still wasn’t used to taking off his Spider-Man suit during his free time. Mentally, the gang was in the area associated with buzzing of the spider sense in his ears, chills down his spine and spiking adrenaline. It’s not like he didn’t trust them, he just felt safer when he could hide in his turtleneck, or when he knew that all of his scars were hidden. But he was trying. It made him happy when he saw wide smiles on Peni and Miles’ faces and those almost invisible ones on Gwen, Peter B. and Porker’s. when one day he emerged from portal, a bit hidden behind his clothes, but with glasses on his nose instead of the googles, and with neatly brushed hair (only his gloves stayed where they were, kids didn’t have to see his cuts and burns that were on his hands). He felt uncomfortable wearing anything beside his usual blacks, but also in that matter the gang hadn’t failed to surprise him. Now, for example, Peter stood dumbfounded as he was looking at very excited Peni, who was almost bouncing up and down. Behind her was Miles looking as enthusiastic as she did, and Gwen - a lot calmer than them. Peni had her hands behind her, which worried Peter immediately. He hated receiving presents. Presents weren’t for people like him. 

 

“It’s for you, Peter!” She said, reaching her hands to him and Peter saw elegantly wrapped, thick package, tied with a ribbon.

 

No. No, no, no.

 

“Peni… I can’t… I can’t accept this, I don’t… Peni!” Frustrated with his inability to express feelings associated with receiving presents, he threw his hands in the air. It was a mistake, because the package immediately landed there.

 

Damn you, Miles!

 

“Dibs on it! Well, for you, since it’s yours, but you know what I mean.” Miles was blabbering, and Peter was just staring at him, terrified, because it was too much, he didn’t deserve any presents, presents were for  _ good _ people, he didn’t deserve such kindness, and he didn’t deserve such good friends. 

 

_ A little more and they’ll know who you really are, Peter. How you kill and destroy everyone close to you. They’ll leave you, for their own safety, because you’re toxic.  _

 

“Noir, buddy, you alright?” Another voice, subconsciously matched as Peter B.’s, had distracted his train of thoughts. “You don’t have to open it, if you don’t want to, but I think it would make kids really happy if you do.”

 

Peter B. was right. He couldn’t disappoint them. He couldn’t ruin their childhood with his selfishness, shatter their innocence even more.

 

“Thank you, team. Really.” He said quietly, finally looking at everybody’s faces. They were worried, but still full of excitement, so maybe he hadn’t hurted them as much as he thought.

 

_ Yet. _

 

“It won’t unpack itself, Peter.” Words sounded a bit ratty, but Peter knew that Gwen was only teasing him. “Come on, Grandpa.”

 

So Peter carefully untied the ribbon, and unwrapped the wrapping paper bound together with three pieces of tape, to see…

 

Black sweater?

 

It’s not that he wasn’t happy about that, but he had a lot of black sweaters and one more of those was just… depressing.

 

“Turn it inside out, Noir. It was my idea, by the way.” Peter B. only grinned, when the gang rolled their eyes. Peter did as he was said to do, and for a moment he didn’t know what they meant, when he saw that the bottom edge of the sweater had sewed in colorful fringe. There wasn’t a chance that anyone beside him could knew about it, and at the same time he knew that this scrap of color was the second most valuable thing he possessed.

 

(The first one was Uncle Ben’s watch, which he  _ never _ wore. He would never forgive himself if he would destroy it.)

 

“Wow… Um…” Peter had to swallow and then clear his throat to be able to say something through lump in his throat. “Nobody ever did something like that for me. I love you all.”

 

“It’s not all, Noir.” said Porker, who came out of nowhere. “There’s one more thing.”

 

And indeed, he didn’t notice it earlier, but under the black sweater was another one, intensively  blue ( _ blue? _ ) and very soft turtleneck.

 

It was too much. Peter’s eyes filled with tears, even if he knew his glasses couldn’t hide it.

 

“We thought that in the black one you could go on the reconnaissances, when the second one would remind you of us, when you’ll be alone.” Gwen explained quietly. “May said that liking soft materials is an universal trait of every Peter. And because Peter B. wasn’t arguing then we looked around for the softest we could find. You like it?”

 

Their little gang weren’t hugging so often, but this time it was the only right way to express Peter’s feelings.

 

And that’s how it all was happening. Living with other Spider-People was full of surprises.

 

But not all moments were so happy. There were also ones when they were fighting together, because villains from each verse were too strong, and as it fast turned out that none of the Spider-People was willing to trust other heroes that weren’t part of the gang. No matter how egotistically it sounds, they all just  _ knew _ each other. Even if Peter B.’s depression, Gwen’s PTSD and Noir’s sporadic anxiety were the open secrets in their group, they just trusted each other more than anyone else. Not always they were coming out from the oppression in one piece. They didn’t like to recall those days.

 

This time it had been quite good, even if a few shots went too close to some vital organs, or the fall was from a little too high, they came back to May’s house without a scratch.

 

(They always regrouped at May’s, and both sides ignored the reasons.)

 

The gang was hanging around the kitchen, eating sandwiches that were made earlier, but Noir wasn’t with them.

 

“Peter, there are two sandwiches for you left!” May called, putting six triangles with ham, cheese and vegetables on a plate. Sometimes that trick had worked, sometimes not, but today May planned to feed Peter as much as she could.

 

“He probably fell asleep, I’ll bring it to him.” Miles offered, jumping from countertop and brushing off some crumbs. “I’ll make sure he’s going to eat everything.”

 

Miles walked into the living room, surprised that he hadn’t seen even a bit of black hair or a coat, sticking out of a couch. Only when he moved toward it, he saw a pair of heavy, steel shod shoes, put alongside the edge of a piece of furniture. However, before Miles could started panicking, he saw that Noir was just sitting on the floor, his face leaning on the seat, and his hands in a metal bowl, full with half melted ice cubes. 

 

“Oh.” sighed quietly Morales. “Geez, that can’t be comfortable. Noir, you asleep?”

 

A single hum told him that no, he wasn’t asleep.

 

“Is everything all right, Peter?”

 

“Just fine and dandy.” He said it with such a tired voice that Miles knew he was bullshitting him.

 

“I have sandwiches from Aunt May. No radishes though, she remembers that you don’t like them, so you have a double tomato instead.”

 

Another hum, even more enigmatic than the last one. Miles couldn’t figure it out, so he just put the plate on the table, next to neatly looking fedora. 

 

“Peter, your hands are turning blue and I don’t like that.” So Peter B. was able to get away from his food, who would have thought.

 

“Still hurts.” If it wasn’t for heightened senses, probably none of them would have catched words murmured into the pillow. What they had heard put them on full alert, especially Peter B., who as the oldest in the group, felt the most responsible for everyone.

 

“Buddy, you have to be more specific here. Tell me what hurts, and I’m going to check your ribs, okay?” After a couple of unpleasant situations they had learnt to warn each other before unexpected touch and Peter B. did the same, kneeling before Peter from the 30’s. “You don’t seem to have anything broken, but you need to tell me, Peter? What exactly hurts?”

 

Sluggish movement of cyanotic from the coldness hands and… 

 

“Wrists. Always hurts after. There’s nothing you can do.”

 

“What do you mean? You should be able to hang with your full body weight on your wrists just fine, I’d done that, and I gained some weight.” The last sentence was meant to make Noir smile a bit, but he only got Miles’ snort in return. “Thanks, Miles, your support is always welcome.” He said maliciously, but without any venom in his voice.

 

“Mmm… Not like that.” Peter’s eyes were closing from exhaustion, one more moment and he’ll fall asleep on Aunt May’s living room floor. “Webs. Hurts when I use it too much. Different mechanism than yours. More… old-fashioned.”

 

“What? You don’t have any…” Miles looked at hidden in the bowl hands and realised that it was basically the first time when he had seen Peter’s hands without gloves. They were hiding three centimeters long, vertical cuts, alongside which he could still see remains of black fibres, of which Peter’s webs had been made. “Oh, man. PB, maybe I’ll get some ice packs? It’s a better option than Peter risking losing his fingers.”

 

Miles disappeared in the kitchen and there was silence, which broke Peter’s really quiet whisper. 

 

“Don’t you think I’m a freak?”

 

“I beg your pardon?” Peter B. was more than surprised with this question. Noir exhaled as if he was trying to make himself smaller and moved his hands meaningfully.  _ Obviously. _ God, Peter B. was sometimes so dumb that he didn’t mind admitting it himself. He also forgot sometimes that even though Peter had come from dimension which was almost eighty years earlier, he wasn’t really that older than Peter from in here. Damn it, his age was probably closer to Gwen’s than his own. It was so easy to forget sometimes, because of his funny slang and keeping some distance. “No, of course not. Why should I?”

 

A shrug was his only an answer. Peter B. couldn’t read his face, still hidden behind the mask, but he was ninety percent sure that Peter was biting his inner cheek. There were some things universal for every Peter Parker, after all.

 

“Peter, listen to me. We’re all spiders, for our own, unique way. You’re one of us. And we don’t leave our people behind.”

 

One more hum, almost inaudible, and silence. Miles came back to the living room with two blue packs in his hands.

 

“All right, Cary Grant, let’s get you to the bed.” Peter B. and Miles held Peter under his shoulders and slowly walked him to one of May’s guest bedrooms. Peter B. helped Peter get out of his coat and shoes, and put on his, still wet and cold, wrists ice packs. “Someone will check on you, and take away ice packs, if you’ll fall asleep. We don’t need any frostbites in this house. Good night, sleep tight, Peter.”

 

And Peter Benjamin Parker slept peacefully that night.

 

* * *

 

He’s twenty one and he knows that nothing is given once and for all.

 

He also knows that you need to appreciate every single good thing you got from life. The less you got, the stronger you should stick to them.

 

“What are you thinking about, Peter?” Porker’s voice interrupted his thoughts. There were credits rolling on the screen, but nobody had moved from their seats.

 

“That I’m happy that I’ve met you, guys.”

 

He’s twenty one and he knows that sometimes family is a group of people with bounds stronger than blood.

 

He’s twenty one and for the first time in his life, he’s feeling somewhere like  _ home. _

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> @blueberrywizard: FIRST OF ALL, I'M BEING SO SO FUCKING GRATEFUL FOR @heismysoulmate PATIENCE AND HARD WORK SHE PUT IN THIS FIC TO MAKE IT WORK. She polished all of hard edges of my first attempt in translating. You should go check her other works, because she's trying so fucking hard to make every single work perfect for you, guys! (and she's better at angst than me) Thank you, once again, for your leap on faith with all of this.
> 
> Okay, then some informations, just to be sure, bc I'm still kinda nervous about that fic.
> 
> As you probably realised we have different pov's and tenses here. I felt like I need to explain myself in case someone feel bothered. I like experiments, but I also wanted to portait Noir a bit (it's not like you can't see it, obviously), so I wanted to put (in this case) three things that make us ourselves: backstory, here and now, and how others see us. I don't know how it worked after all, or if it isn't a auto misinterpretation (does something like that even exists?) so here we are. And I gave higher rating just to be sure - Spider-Verse is still an animation dedicated mostly to children, and we have some disturbing themes here (well, I hadn't looked at rating as a kid, but I'm mom type of person).
> 
> First part is mostly comics (or rather what I could make based on eight issues), and only with second part I'm using movie while trying to eliminate inaccuracies and other stuff. Also, I like hc that Peter's closer to kids' ages than PB's., which is basically written in comics.
> 
>  
> 
> @heismysoulmate: i'm just a little good ghost who help with a translation, becuase i just love this story. and i hope you're gonna enjoy this fic as much as i enjoyed writing this. the gang (and the original author) deserve your love, so kudos and comments would be really nice. i hope we didn't fucked up too much with this translation... anyway, thanks for reading! x
> 
>  
> 
> Once again, it's not our first language and if you have some questions, comments, complaints and requests - leave comment, and we'll try to work it out. I, uh, love you all!


End file.
